Beatrice Strawberry has started  calling me at my mom’s house.  Well, usually Richard dials, or sometimes my dad, but then they put Beatrice right on.  She’s not a bad conversationalist, if you don’t expect what she says to make people sense.

“How’s the flying going?” I ask her. “Getting any better at it?”

“Happy bird,” says Beatrice.

“How’s the diet going?”

“Treats.”

And so on.

Advertisements